 | CHAPTER VII. The pilot |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!”
Campbell.
Long and dreary did the hours appear to
Barnstable, before the falling tide had so far receded,
as to leave the sands entirely exposed to
his search for the bodies of his lost shipmates.
Several had been rescued from the wild fury of
the waves themselves, and one by one, as the melancholy
conviction that life had ceased was
forced on the survivors, they had been decently
interred, in graves dug on the very margin of that
element on which they had passed their lives.
But still the form longest known and most beloved
was missing, and the lieutenant paced the
broad space that was now left between the foot of
the cliffs and the raging ocean, with hurried
strides and a feverish eye, watching and following
those fragments of the wreck that the sea still
continued to cast on the beach. Living and
dead, he now found, that of those who had lately
been in the Ariel, only two were missing. Of the
former, he could muster but twelve, besides Merry
and himself, and his men had already interred
together, embraced all who had trusted their lives
to the frail keeping of the whale-boat.
“Tell me not, boy, of the impossibility of
his being safe,” said Barnstable, in deep agitation,
which he in vain struggled to conceal
from the anxious youth, who thought it necessary
to follow the uneasy motions of his commander,
as he strode along the sands. “How often
have men been found floating on pieces of wreck,
days after the loss of their vessel? and you can
see, with your own eyes, that the falling water
has swept the planks this distance; ay, a good
half league from where she struck. Does the
look-out, from the top of the cliffs, make no signal
of seeing him yet?”
“None, sir, none; we shall never see him
again. The men say, that he always thought it
sinful to desert a wreck, and that he did not even
strike-out once for his life, though he has been
known to swim an hour, when a whale has stove
his boat. God knows, sir,” added the boy, hastily
dashing a tear from his eye, by a stolen
movement of his hand, that was occasioned by
the doubtful character of his years, “I loved
Tom Coffin better than any foremast-man in either
vessel. You seldom came aboard the frigate
but we had him in the steerage among us
reefers, to hear his long-yarns, and share our
cheer. We all loved him, Mr. Barnstable, but
love cannot bring the dead to life again.”
“I know it, I know it,” said Barnstable, with
a huskiness in his voice, that betrayed the depth
of his emotion; “I am not so foolish as to believe
in impossibilities; but while there is a hope
of his living, I will never abandon poor Tom
Coffin to such a dreadful fate. Think, boy, he
to his Maker that he would turn our eyes
upon him; ay, praying to his God, for Tom often
prayed, though he did it in his watch, standing,
and in silence.”
“If he had clung to life so strongly,” returned
the midshipman, “he would have struggled
harder to preserve it.”
Barnstable stopped short in his hurried walk,
and fastened a look of opening conviction on his
companion; but, as he was about to speak in reply,
the shouts of the seamen reached his ears,
and, turning, they saw the whole party running
along the beach, and motioning, with violent gestures,
to an intermediate point in the ocean. The
lieutenant and Merry hurried back, and, as they
approached the men, they distinctly observed a
human figure, borne along by the waves, at moments
seeming to rise above them, and already
floating in the last of the breakers. They had
hardly ascertained so much, when a heavy swell
carried the inanimate body far upon the sands,
where it was left by the retiring waters.
“'Tis my cockswain!” cried Barnstable, rushing
to the spot. He stopped suddenly, however,
as he came within view of the features, and it
was some little time before he appeared to have
collected his faculties sufficiently to add, in tones
of deep horror—“what wretch is this, boy! his
form is unmutilated, and yet observe the eyes!
they seem as if the sockets would not contain
them, and they gaze as wildly as if their owner
yet had life—the hands are open and spread, as
though they would still buffet the waves!”
“The Jonah! the Jonah!” shouted the seamen,
with savage exultation, as they successively
approached the corpse; “away with his carrion
him tell his lies in the claws of the lobsters!”
Barnstable had turned away from the revolting
sight, in disgust, but when he discovered these
indications of impotent revenge, in the remnant
of his crew, he said, in that voice, which all respected,
and still obeyed—
“Stand back! back with ye, fellows! would
you disgrace your manhood and seamanship, by
wreaking your vengeance on him whom God
has already in judgment!” A silent, but significant
gesture towards the earth, succeeded his
words, and he walked slowly away.
“Bury him in the sands, boys,” said Merry,
when his commander was at some little distance;
“the next tide will unearth him.”
The seamen obeyed his orders, while the midshipman
rejoined his commander, who continued
to pace along the beach, occasionally halting, to
throw his uneasy glances over the water, and
then hurrying onward, at a rate that caused his
youthful companion to exert his greatest power
to maintain the post he had taken at his side.
Every effort to discover the lost cockswain was,
however, after two hours' more search, abandoned
as fruitless, and with reason; for the sea was
never known to give up the body of the man
who might be, emphatically, called its own dead.
“There goes the sun, already dropping behind
the cliffs,” said the lieutenant, throwing
himself on a rock; “and the hour will soon arrive
to set the dog-watches; but we have nothing
left to watch over, boy; the surf and rocks
have not even left us a whole plank, that we may
lay our heads on for the night.”
“The men have gathered many articles on
you beach, sir,” returned the lad; “they have
to give us strength to use them.”
“And who shall be our enemy?” asked Barnstable,
bitterly; “shall we shoulder our dozen
pikes, and carry England by boarding?”
“We may not lay the whole island under contribution,”
continued the boy, anxiously watching
the expression of his commander's eye; “but
we may still keep ourselves in work, until the
cutter returns from the frigate. I hope, sir, you
do not think our case so desperate, as to intend
yielding as prisoners.”
“Prisoners!” exclaimed the lieutenant; “no,
no, lad, it has not got to that, yet! England has
been able to wreck my craft, I must concede, but
she has, as yet, obtained no other advantage
over us. She was a precious model, Merry! the
cleanest run, and the neatest entrance, that art
ever united on the stem and stern of the same
vessel! Do you remember the time, younker,
when I gave the frigate my topsails, in beating
out of the Chesapeake? I could always do it,
in smooth water, with a whole-sail-breeze. But
she was a frail thing! a frail thing, boy, and
could bear but little.”
“A mortar-ketch would have thumped to
pieces where she lay,” returned the midshipman.
“Ay, it was asking too much of her, to expect
she could hold together on a bed of rocks.
Merry, I loved her; dearly did I love her; she
was my first command, and I knew and loved
every timber and bolt in her beautiful frame!”
“I believe it is as natural, sir, for a seaman to
love the wood and iron in which he has floated
over the depths of the ocean, for so many days
and nights,” rejoined the boy, “as it is for a
father to love the members of his own family.”
“Quite, quite, ay, more so,” said Barnstable,
speaking as if he were choked by emotion.
Merry felt the heavy grasp of the lieutenant on
his slight arm, while his commander continued,
in a voice that gradually increased in power, as
his feelings predominated; “and yet, boy, a human
being cannot love the creature of his own
formation as he does the works of God. A man
can never regard his ship as he does his shipmates.
I sailed with him, boy, when every thing
seemed bright and happy, as at your age; when,
as he often expressed it, I knew nothing and feared
nothing. I was then a truant from an old father
and a kind mother, and he did that for
me, which no parents could have done in my
situation—he was my father and mother on the
deep!—hours, days, even months, has he passed
in teaching me the art of our profession; and
now, in my manhood, he has followed me from
ship to ship, from sea to sea, and has only quitted
me to die, where I should have died—as if he
felt the disgrace of abandoning the poor Ariel to
her fate, by herself!”
“No—no—no—'twas his superstitious pride!”
interrupted Merry; but perceiving that the head
of Barnstable had sunk between his hands, as if
he would conceal his emotion, the boy added no
more, but he sat respectfully watching the display
of feeling that his officer, in vain, endeavoured to
suppress. Merry felt his own form quiver with
sympathy at the shuddering which passed through
Barnstable's frame; and the relief experienced by
the lieutenant himself, was not greater than that
which the midshipman felt, as the latter beheld
large tears forcing their way through the other's
fingers, and falling on the sands at his feet. They
were followed by a violent burst of emotion, such
but which, when it conquers the nature of one
who has buffeted the chances of the world with
the loftiness of his sex and character, breaks
down every barrier, and seems to sweep before it,
like a rushing torrent, all the factitious defences
which habit and education have created to protect
the pride of manhood. Merry had often
beheld the commanding severity of the lieutenant's
manner, in moments of danger, with deep
respect; he had been drawn towards him by
kindness and affection, in times of gayety and
recklessness; but he now sate, for many minutes,
profoundly silent, regarding his officer with sensations
that were nearly allied to awe. The
struggle with himself was long and severe in the
bosom of Barnstable; but, at length, the calm
of relieved passions succeeded to his emotion.
When he arose from the rock, and removed
his hands from his features, his eye was hard
and proud, his brow slightly contracted, and he
spoke in a voice so harsh, that it startled his companion—
“Come, sir; why are we here and idle! are
not yon poor fellows looking up to us for advice,
and orders how to proceed in this exigency?
Away, away, Mr. Merry; it is not a time to be
drawing figures in the sand with your dirk; the
flood-tide will soon be in, and we may be glad to
hide our heads in some cavern among these rocks.
Let us be stirring, sir, while we have the sun, and
muster enough food and arms to keep life in us,
and our enemies off us, until we can once more
get afloat.”
The wondering boy, whose experience had not
yet taught him to appreciate the reaction of the
passions, started at this unexpected summons
group of distant seamen. The lieutenant, who was
instantly conscious how far pride had rendered
him unjust, soon moderated his long strides, and
continued in milder tones, which were quickly
converted into his usual frank communications,
though they still remained tinged with a melancholy,
that time only could entirely remove—
“We have been unlucky, Mr. Merry, but
we need not despair—these lads have gotten
together abundance of supplies, I see; and,
with our arms, we can easily make ourselves
masters of some of the enemy's smaller craft,
and find our way back to the frigate, when this
gale has blown itself out. We must keep ourselves
close, though, or we shall have the red-coats
coming down upon us, like so many sharks
around a wreck. Ah! God bless her, Merry!
there is not such a sight to be seen on the whole
beach as two of her planks holding together.”
The midshipman, without adverting to this
sudden allusion to their vessel, prudently pursued
the train of ideas, in which his commander had
started.
“There is an opening into the country, but a
short distance south of us, where a brook empties
into the sea,” he said. “We might find a cover
in it, or in the wood above, into which it leads,
until we can have a survey of the coast, or can
seize some vessel to carry us off.”
“There would be a satisfaction in waiting 'till
the morning watch, and then carrying that accursed
battery, which took off the better leg of
the poor Ariel!” said the lieutenant—“the thing
might be done, boy; and we could hold the work
too, until the Alacrity and the frigate draw into
land.”
“If you prefer storming works to boarding
vessels, there is a fortress of stone, Mr. Barnstable,
which lies directly on our beam. I could see
it through the haze, when I was on the cliffs, stationing
the look-out—and—”
“And what, boy? speak without fear; this is
a time for free consultation.”
“Why, sir, the garrison might not be all hostile—we
should liberate Mr. Griffith and the marine;
besides—”
“Besides what, sir?”
“I should have an opportunity, perhaps, of
seeing my cousin Cecilia, and my cousin Katherine.”
The countenance of Barnstable grew animated
as he listened, and he answered, with something
of his usual cheerful manner—
“Ay, that, indeed, would be a work worth
carrying! and the rescuing of our shipmates, and
the marines, would read like a thing of military
discretion—ha! boy! all the rest would be incidental,
younker; like the capture of the fleet,
after you have whipped the convoy.”
“I do suppose, sir, that if the Abbey be taken,
Colonel Howard will own himself a prisoner of
war.”
“And Colonel Howard's wards! now, there
is good sense in this scheme of thine, Master
Merry, and I will give it proper reflection. But
here are our poor fellows; speak cheeringly to
them, sir, that we may hold them in temper for
our enterprise.”
Barnstable and the midshipman joined their
shipwrecked companions, with that air of authority
which is seldom wanting between the superior
and the inferior, in nautical intercourse, but at
the same time, with a kindness of speech and
looks, that might have been a little increased by
food which had been selected from among
the fragments that still lay scattered, for more
than a mile, along the beach, the lieutenant
directed the seamen to arm themselves with
such weapons as offered, and, also, to make a
sufficient provision, from the schooner's stores,
to last them for four-and-twenty hours longer.
These orders were soon executed; and the whole
party, led by Barnstable and Merry, proceeded
along the foot of the cliffs, in quest of the
opening in the rocks, through which the little
rivulet found a passage to the ocean. The
weather contributed, as much as the seclusion
of the spot, to prevent any discovery of the
small party, which pursued its object with a disregard
of caution that might, under other circumstances,
have proved fatal to its safety.
Barnstable paused in his march when they had
all entered the deep ravine, and ascended nearly
to the brow of the precipice, that formed one of
its sides, to take a last and more scrutinizing
survey of the sea. His countenance exhibited
the abandonment of all hope, as his eye moved
slowly from the northern to the southern boundary
of the horizon, and he prepared to pursue
his march, by moving, reluctantly, up the stream,
when the boy, who still clung to his side, exclaimed—
“Sail ho! It must be the frigate in the
offing!”
“A sail!” repeated his commander; “where-away
do you see a sail in this tempest? Can
there be another as hardy and unfortunate as
ourselves!”
“Look to the starboard hand of the point of
rock to windward!” cried the boy; “now you
lose it—ah! now the sun falls upon it! 'tis a sail,
gale!”
“I see what you mean,” returned the other,
“but it seems a gull, skimming the sea! nay,
now it rises, indeed, and shows itself like a bellying
topsail; pass up that glass, lads; here is
a fellow in the offing who may prove a friend.”
Merry waited the result of the lieutenant's
examination with youthful impatience, and did
not fail to ask, immediately—
“Can you make it out, sir? is it the ship or
the cutter?”
“Come, there seemeth yet some hope left for
us, boy,” returned Barnstable, closing the glass;
“'tis a ship, lying-to under her main-topsail. If
one did but dare show himself on these heights,
he might raise her hull, and make sure of her
character! But I think I know her spars,
though even her topsail dips, at times, when there
is nothing to be seen but her bare poles, and
they shortened by her top-gallant-masts.”
“One would swear,” said Merry, laughing, as
much through the excitement produced by this
intelligence, as at his conceit, “that Captain
Munson would never carry wood aloft, when he
can't carry canvass. I remember, one night, Mr.
Griffith was a little vexed, and said, around the
capstern, he believed the next order would be, to
rig in the bowsprit, and house lower-masts!”
“Ay, ay, Griffith is a lazy dog, and sometimes
gets lost in the fogs of his own thoughts,”
said Barnstable; “and I suppose old Moderate
was in a breeze. However, this looks as if he
were in earnest; he must have kept the ship
away, or she would never have been where she is;
I do verily believe the old gentleman remembers
that he has a few of his officers and men on this
we take the Abbey, we have a place at hand in
which to put our prisoners.”
“We must have patience till the morning,”
added the boy, “for no boat would attempt to
land in such a sea.”
“No boat could land! The best boat that
ever floated, boy, has sunk in these breakers!
But the wind lessens, and before morning, the
sea will fall. Let us on, and find a birth for our
poor lads, where they can be made more comfortable.”
The two officers now descended from their
elevation, and led the way still further up the
deep and narrow dell, until, as the ground rose
gradually before them, they found themselves
in a dense wood, on a level with the adjacent
country.
“Here should be a ruin at hand, if I have kept
a true reckoning, and know my courses and distances,”
said Barnstable; “I have a chart about
me, that speaks of such a land-mark.”
The lieutenant turned away from the laughing
expression of the boy's eye, as the latter archly
inquired—
“Was it made by one who knows the coast
well, sir? or was it done by some school-boy, to
learn his maps, as the girls work samplers?”
“Come, younker, no sampler of your impudence.
But look ahead; can you see any habitation
that has been deserted?”
“Ay, sir, here is a pile of stones before us,
that looks as dirty and ragged, as if it was a
soldier's barrack; can this be what you seek?”
“Faith, this has been a whole town in its day!
we should call it a city in America, and furnish
it with a Mayor, Aldermen, and Recorder—you
might stow old Faneuil-Hall in one of its lockers.”
With this sort of careless dialogue, which
Barnstable engaged in, that his men might discover
no alteration in his manner, they approached
the mouldering walls that had proved so frail
a protection to the party under Griffith.
A short time was passed in examining the premises,
when the wearied seamen took possession
of one of the dilapidated apartments, and disposed
themselves to seek that rest of which they
had been deprived by the momentous occurrences
of the past night.
Barnstable waited until the loud breathing of
the seamen assured him that they slept, when he
aroused the drowsy boy, who was fast losing his
senses in the same sort of oblivion, and motioned
to him to follow. Merry arose, and they stole
together from the apartment, with guarded steps,
and penetrated more deeply into the gloomy recesses
of the place.
| CHAPTER VII. The pilot | |